447. The Perks vs. the Drips

Posted on February 20, 2022 by Octo-woman

One of my best friends is my coffee pot. I hesitate to mention this, because it might suggest that my social life is pathetic, which it is, but I don’t want anyone signing me up for Tinder.

Two days ago, my faithful coffee pot and I faced a near catastrophe in our kitchen. This may not come as any surprise to you. In any household occupied by Octo-woman, the kitchen is the room where fires, smoke inhalation, explosions, food-poisonings, floods, first degree burns, electrical shock, and other food emergencies are most likely to occur. Everybody seems to know that.

This time though, it really wasn’t my fault. I was entirely an innocent victim of the event.

Every night, I set up the electric coffee pot to start brewing in the a.m. as soon as Alexa gives it a virtual punch. (She tends to be very bossy.) 

Next morning, still semi-conscious but kind of awake, I lunged myself out of bed, grunted at Alexa to start the coffee pot out in the kitchen, and then got dressed. Getting all dolled up in my long underwear, sweatshirt, baggy pants, Reeboks, do-rag, and my hearing aids, usually takes 12 minutes – about as long as it takes for the coffee pot’s red Ready light to come on. Staggered into the kitchen for the first of my two nice morning cups of joe. Poured it into the cup. And found a cup – of piping hot water. Gasp! 

I looked in at the basket of coffee grounds. Completely dry! Obviously, the  coffee pot had become incompetent, incapacitated and possibly – yes – near death.

Time for crisis mode! How could I go on without my caffeine jolt? And what could have happened? Was it the full moon? Am I being punished because I’ve been missing Mass on Sundays? And who should I call for emergency services? 911? Facebook? Jack Reacher?

No. I knew I had to take immediate action myself.  I couldn’t wait for James Bond (spoiler alert), him now being dead.

If there was ever a time for effective crisis management, this was it. I will detail my plan of action below as a public service. 

That will have to wait a moment though, because it may be necessary to get you better acquainted with my troubled but trusty coffee pot. It has the magical name of “Presto” and though I have never observed it’s supernatural capabilities, I remain in awe of its normally delicious, dependable and economical coffee-making. 

The Presto – my little 12 cup friend

The Presto – an electric percolator –  was first produced in 1954 and – thanks to its dedicated fan base – has remained in production ever since with 4+ star reviews – for the past 68 years. You can find it on amazon.com today for $59. Discerning addicts like me keep buying it so it must be doing something right when it comes to delivering a caffeine fix.

 What has – unfairly, in my view- tarnished its percolator popularity, was what the “Madmen” like Don Draper of Madison Avenue did to it in the 1970s. 

During the 70’s, those clever snake-oil salesmen managed to convince the world that drip – not – percolated – coffee was the be-all and end-all for the perfect cup of Java. They managed to sell millions of drip coffeemakers to starry-eyed pushovers like me, – along with a WHOLE lot more coffee. I used to use nearly twice as much coffee to brew a cup in a drip vs. a percolator pot. Today, you’ll find recommendations to use up to 2 tablespoons of fine grind to brew one cup in a drip coffeemaker vs.1 tablespoon of coarser grind in a percolator. Ka-Ching!

Okay, I understand. What about The Taste? Yes, coffee drinkers are stubborn about what they want the stuff to taste like. Me, I like the comforting flavor of the percolated brew. The Drips claim that the Perks’ coffee has a more robust flavor, but that it suffers from over-brewing. It can’t over-brew in an electric pot though, so I’m fine with it. And I’m used to the Presto version of my favorite drink. You might not like it, though. You just have to get used to it. Rest assured that you can get used to hanging if you hang long enough.

Drinking Starbuck’s Americana coffee

As has  been observed, there’s no accounting for taste. For example, unlike most of the world, I’m not a Starbuck’s fan. I think their French Roast coffee is delicious when brewed in my Presto percolator, but when I taste it steam-brewed in one of their bistros, I think I’m drinking battery acid. I mean, I like coffee but I don’t want use it to grow hair on my chest. So I just save their pricey French Roast to brew at home in the percolator for days when Queen Elizabeth or the Archbishop may be dropping by for lunch.

The rest of the time, the coffee I buy for the percolator is Costco’s Kirkland Colombian coffee (in the brown can) and it only comes in a fine grind. Percolators supposedly do better with a coarser grind but I like the taste of the Costco brand (and the price is sort of right, especially when on sale), so I get around the fine-grind problem by filtering it. I’m too old-fangled and stingy to buy paper filters though. I just pull out a stack of about 12 paper towels, cut the stack in 4 quarters, store them in a Glad bag, and pull out one little square each time I make a fresh pot, tearing a tiny slit in the middle to fit in the percolator’s basket. I get some of the grind filtering through, but as far as I know, it hasn’t killed me yet.

I always use glass coffee cups like this one (from Dollar Tree) because I like seeing how clear and enticing the brewed coffee looks, and so I can see when it’s time to get another “shot”. Alexa still hasn’t actually figured out how to keep the cup filled. I’m trying to be patient with her.

Yet another advantage of my 12 cup percolator is how little space it needs on the kitchen counter. It always looks nice and tidy and unassuming – unlike some of the monster coffeemakers I’ve used that hog the space I was saving for dirty dishes and stale bread.

I’m sure you have been trembling with anticipation to learn how I resolved the crisis facing me and my percolator in our time of crisis this week. Here’s my action plan, step by step. You might want to take notes.

1. As soon as I semi-recovered from the shock of the percolator’s failure, I reached for the Nescafé Taster’s Choice Instant Coffee, a product which when drowned in boiling hot water, can deliver a jolt of caffeine while pretending to taste like something that reminds you of coffee.

2.   Following the infusion of instant caffeine, I was able to call upon Octo-woman’s superhuman powers of observation and deduced that (a) the Presto percolator wasn’t able to operate properly, and (b) in order to avoid another morning without caffeine, I would need a replacement, or (c)  I would need to rejuvenate my hobbled percolator back to its previous gurgling glory.

Since my previous Prestos tended to keep happily percolating for several years, I decided that my multiple choice selection should be (c). I would aim for the glory of rejuvenation vs. replacement. 

3.  I took off the lid and looked inside. Almost instantly, after assessing the cruddy build-up inside, it dawned on me. What if I were to – yes, that’s It! –  – wash out the insides? But not just a minor scrub. I filled it with water with a little Clorox mixed in it, Soaked the pot overnight and by morning the insides were sparkling clean – all except the little aluminum well that the basket’s tube fits in. It took some scraping. That feature is the Presto’s only weakness!  I wish that little well was stainless steel like the rest of the pot but you can’t have everything in this life. Following a good rinse, I let the pot perk a couple of full pots of clear water to remove all the Clorox and it seemed to remember how to percolate perfectly. At least with the plain water.

4.  Finally brewed the first pot of real coffee and it was delicious. The caffeine catastrophe was averted, and my faithful percolator and I are still best friends.

It was just another day of intense drama in our eventful lives here at the exciting Kartar Ridge Ranch. Now, how about a nice, hot, flavorful cup of coffee?Ahhhhh!

In case you’d like to get to know my little friend better, here are its name, rank and serial number on amazon.com.

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446. Wenzel John Kozlovsky

Posted on February 13, 2022 by Octo-woman

Ever wonder why nobody is ever smiling in the old time-y photographs? One explanation is this one from a Time magazine article:

“Experts say that the lack of smiles early on is that photography took guidance from pre-existing customs in painting—an art form in which many found grins uncouth and inappropriate for portraiture. Accordingly, high-end studio photographers would create an elegant setting and direct the subject how to behave, producing the staid expressions which are so familiar in 19th century photographs. The images they created were formal and befitted the expense of paying to have a portrait made, especially when that portrait might be the only image of someone.”

Now take a peek at this one. It’s from one of my family’s photo albums.

Wenzel and Mary Kozlovsky with son Joseph and one of their daughters

The stern-visaged characters pictured here definitely listened to their photographer and resisted the urge to say “Cheese!” They are (from left) my husband Gene’s Bohemian great-grandfather Wieniawski (Wenzel) John Kozlovsky and great-grandmother Mary Cenefels Kozlovski. Standing behind them are Gene’s great-uncle Joseph, and one of his great aunts – possibly Anna.

While putting together this blob, I found there may other reasons for their grim countenances than the photographer’s instruction. For the women, for instance, how much fun could it be squeezed into those corsets? To be serious though, there really was reason for this family to know that life certainly is not all sunshine and flowers. What you are observing in this photo are people who really were able to capture “the American Dream”, but it took hardship and tragedy to achieve it.

In cranking out the blob, I may have made errors in data and interpretation, but they are unintentional. If you can help correct me, please mercifully holler in the Comment section below.

Today’s blob will just concentrate on one of characters in this family photo: Gene’s great-grandfather. On where he came from, and what happened to him. Possibly nobody could really pronounce his first name – Wieniawski – because all the info I could find about him always referred to him as “Wenzel”, “W. John”, or often just “John”.

Map showing Kingdom of Bohemia

Before I tell you his story though – as best as I could piece it together – I may need to explain what a “Bohemian” is. A “bohemian” can be an unconventional or nonconformist artist or writer, and often unusual in habit or dress. That’s not who our relatives were. If the term has a capital B, it refers to somebody who came from Bohemia.

In case you don’t know where Bohemia is, you’re not alone. It used to be called the Kingdom of Bohemia but after World War I, along with the Austria-Hungarian Empire, it was dissolved into what is now known as the Czechoslovak Republic.

My family as well as my husband’s family – and many other Iowan families – is made up of Irish, Bohemian, and Norwegian immigrants to the U.S. The following dissertation is 36 pages long, but it is a fascinating platform on which to set the stage for great-grandpa Wenzel John Kozlovsky’s story.  It explains issues I always wondered about – like why the Catholic Irish were so hated and vilified, while the Bohemians – also strict Catholics – seemed to be more easily accepted. (The treatise suggests it was because the Irish were illiterate and destitute, while the Bohemians were literate and had enough money to tide them over till they could start earning money). I hope you’ll find time to read it. It’s at https://scholarworks.bgsu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1748&context=honorsprojects 

Bohemian immigrants

To explain further, though, about 1950, Bohemians began immigrating to the U.S. with their families. According to http://gustavfristensky.com: “The possibilities offered by a young United States for acquiring free land became an attractive, nonetheless, a risky alternative to the lack of opportunities in rural Central Europe…Following the revolution, emigrating was not as easy. However, letters from early emigrants, stories, and advertisement about the free land and railroad jobs promoted in Czech newspapers was very enticing…Conditions for immigrants in the United States were harsh, and up to a quarter returned to Europe. There were no labor laws, no minimum wage, no workers compensation, and unions were just beginning. There was no social support, except for fraternal organizations and family.”

“The oldest significant Bohemian colony in the United States is in New York, which by 1854 had about 40 families. In Texas, the first Bohemian settlement was established at Catspring in 1847. In 1848 the Bohemians settled alongside Germans, Irish, and Norwegians in Wisconsin, mainly in the counties of Adams, Kewaunee, Manitowoc, Marathon, and Oconto. Other settlements followed in Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska. 

And from Selected Papers from the 2003 SVU North American Conference, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 26-28 June 2003 came this:

Bohemians dancing polka

Even though there were a large number of Czechs who went to Wisconsin from Bohemia, there was another group of Bohemian immigrants who came at the same time and for the same reasons. They too loved to drink “pivo” but they called it “Bier”. They loved to eat sauerkraut, pork and knefliks but they called the dumplings Knoedl. They made a coffeecake with cottage cheese, prunes and apples or almonds. They did not eat kolaches but schmierkuchen. They loved to dance the polka and enjoyed a good time. They had their homes in the same area of Bohemia where in many cases they were neighbors in the same villages. Some of them even had Czech sounding names. The main difference was in their language. They spoke a dialect of German called Böhmisch. They were the German-Bohemians, the Deutschböhme. 

Wenzel John Kozlovsky

But now, on to our story of W. John Kozlovsky in America – at least what I’ve been able to unravel. I discovered that names and dates can be pretty slippery amongst old genealogy records so mine may be, too. 

John was born in Wolowitz, Bohemia in 1836.  He arrived in Wisconsin from Bohemia in 1846 at the age of 10. As  pioneer settlers, his family farmed there for several years. 

Mary Cenefels Kozlovsky

Like most of the Bohemian immigrants, John probably couldn’t speak English. We can be pretty sure of that because an 1875 newspaper clipping reported that his barn burned down before an “American” could communicate what was happening to local firemen. It must have been a major disaster for his farming efforts.

In 1855, a young 19 year-old girl named Mary Cenefels (may be Cenefelt) also crossed the Atlantic from Bohemia, and two years later, in 1857, she married John in Manitowoc County, Wisconsin. (Mary was born 1836 in  Zahorany by Domazlice, Bohemia).

John and Mary had six children: pictured here are Anna (Wenzel Hedrick); Joseph (Magdalene Benesh); Mary (V. J. Dvorak); Catherine (Joseph Klima);  and Rosa (Frank O’Hanlon).

Joseph Kozlovsky with his sisters Anna, Mary, Catherine, and Rosa

In 1863, John must have decided farming wasn’t his most promising activity. He moved the family to Marion, Iowa where he worked as a meat butcher. Returning to Cedar Rapids in 1869, he established what became known as “the Cedar Rapids house” and operated that hotel for the next 30 years.  That’s where the story gets a little more intense.

The hotel included a popular saloon.  John, and later, his son Joseph operated it with what appears to be an iron fist, but it was nonetheless the scene of frequent fights and crimes, some of them violent.

Iowa saloons before Prohibition, weren’t the kind of comfy places where “Everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came”. According to the Des Moines Register,

Current folklore about Prohibition ignores the absolute ugliness of saloons in the 19th century. The public house had become a male-only social and political establishment, energetic in its traditions and enthusiasms but often described as dreary, dank, dirty and dangerous places leading to male neglect and violence. The litany of sexual abuses connected with the saloon were extensive, including prostitution, venereal disease and rape. 

Saloon in Iowa in 1900

Here’s an example of some possibly typical skullduggery:

 

One night, son Joseph was badly hurt in a fight..

And then one day John himself got stabbed . . .

At first, it was hoped John would survive the assault, but a few days later, on January 13, 1894 . . .

Upon hearing news of his victim’s death, the culprit was interviewed:

The funeral was planned ….

 … and was well attended by the citizenry of Cedar Rapids …

Here’s a description of John’s funeral.

Sadly, shortly after his death, his reputation took a hit when it was indirectly criticized by the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.

Here’s a response to it by John’s hometown newspaper, the Cedar Rapids Gazette:

Wenzel John Kozlovsky

A common denominator of all the Bohemians I’ve known personally or am related to is their dogged determination to work hard.  It must have paid off for John because according to the Cedar Rapids Gazette, his estate at the time of his death was $25,000 to $35,000. In today’s dollars, that would have been nearly $700,000. Not bad for an immigrant who couldn’t even speak English when he arrived in America. And aside from getting fined for selling liquor on Sundays, I couldn’t find any other instances when he didn’t manage to stay within the law. 

John’s wife, Mary, died four years after his death, in 1898.

So that’s at least part of the story of Wenzel John Kozlovsky, who, in spite of his tragic death was able to realize the American dream..

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444.  Brain-fog

Posted on February 6, 2022 by Octo-woman

Brain-fog.  A mental deficiency – sometimes temporary – when you can’t think of anything to talk about on your weekly blob. 

Answer: reach out for internet help. Browse on “When you can’t think of anything interesting to write about”. These suggested topics, extensively modified to accommodate my own personal capabilities, might work. Or not.

So here’s Octo-woman’s personal list of Brain-fog Blob Topics:

1. Join a local volleyball or kickball league.  You will have plenty of stories if you do this. 

2. Describe a crime you have committed. Guaranteed to be an attention-getter.

3. Avoid sharing your recipe collection. Your readers may not have an avid interest in your eleven ways to cook celery.

4. Being as succinct and engaging as possible, write a suicide note. 

5. Based on your own user experience, list the 10 most popular incontinence products.

6. Request advice for efficient ways to oil your shotgun. Give that sawed-off a catchy name, like “Omar”. For a user guide, review all seasons of “The Wire”.

7. With your Rollator walker as partner, demonstrate the basic steps on how to do a hot samba.

8. Dare to be different. For a swanky new look, set your nose ring aside, and hang your hearing aid in the hole instead. 

9. Remembering that anything worth doing is worth doing to excess, write yet another blob about either of your two heroes – Jack Reacher or Elon Musk. 

Elon Musk
Jack Reacher
They’re both in trouble again

The topic chosen for this week will have to be No. 9 above. Elon Musk re-visited, because in case you don’t know this, he may be in trouble yet again.

As we speak, a piece of space junk from one of Elon’s SpaceX rockets launched in 2015 is hurtling toward the moon. It’s set to crash into the lunar surface 26 days from today on March 4th. 

The upper stage of the rocket booster is the size of a school bus, it weighs four tons, and is traveling at a speed of 5600 mph. This is the first time that we know of that humans have ever accidentally crash-landed anything on the lunar surface. Elon has a habit of always being the first.

SpaceX rocket in 2015 still in one piece

The rocket remnant has been tumbling through space for the past 7 years. It was too far away from Earth and had too little fuel to return, so instead, it’s been yanked around by the Earth and the moon’s gravitational pull in what experts say is a “chaotic” orbit.

This piece of space junk could have gone in a lot of different directions. It could have gone into an orbit where it would have hit the Earth, or it could have even been picked up into an orbit around the sun. But a couple of weeks ago, new data showed the rocket piece was going to crash into the moon. The moon is going to get a new crater.

According to Jonathan McDowell, an astronomer with the Center for Astrophysics Harvard and Smithsonian, the rocket piece is “going to get completely destroyed. A huge plume of moon dust is going to go up where it hit and then settle down over a wide area of the moon,” he said. 

After about a day, the dust will settle and there will be a “sparkly fresh new lunar crater,” McDowell said. What isn’t a big concern, though, is this accidental lunar crash causing any harm to people on Earth, or any major problems for the moon itself.

“It’s a policy concern in the long run,” McDowell said. “But this particular piece of space junk smashing into the moon… the moon’s had lots of things smash into it over the years. It’ll be fine.”

Mad Cow

That’s easy for him to say about the moon, but the Owl and the Pussycat may differ. And so, too, the cow that jumps over it, while the little dog won’t be laughing to see such sport, either. And anyway, I’m still not convinced that the whole moon isn’t made of cheese – a bowl of it soon to be grated or shredded ala Elon. 

And so it goes on a brain-foggy day.

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443. If I only had a brain (chip)

Posted on January 30, 2022 by Octo-woman
Graphic of Neuralink implant in brain

It has come to my attention that Elon Musk’s Neuralink brain device company is currently requesting applications for a clinical director. His/her/their job will be to manage the trials to install the brain chip in human brains. It’s getting serious, people. The trials are hopefully planned to commence in 2022. Hmmm!

I guess it’s time for another advisory epistle from Octo-woman to Elon. I know he must appreciate hearing from me frequently, our spiritual connection being what it is. Contrary to popular opinion, it does not involve actual stalking on my part, but it probably would if I knew how to drive. Of course, if I had a Tesla, I wouldn’t need to know how. (I’ll have to save up some bitcoins for that). I’m just licensed for a walker right now.

Anyway, here goes.

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Elon Musk
SpaceX Headquarters
54298 Boca Chica Blvd.
Brownsville, TX 78521

Dear Elon:

I really appreciated seeing photos of models similar to your newly rented $50K home in Texas. It’s nice that you’re trying to economize, Elon, but I have to tell you that your new digs will be a little tight when I come for visits. Take the kitchen stools, as an example. I don’t think I’ll be able to get my knees under the counter when I’m having my oatmeal and prunes. What were you thinking?

An interior view of a rented $50K home like Elon Musk’s
Elon and the Pope

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On the other hand, I do appreciate seeing that large crucifix on the wall.

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I didn’t realize how religious you are, my boy, even though one of your Time magazine Person of the Year photos also included you with a pic of the Pope. It’s nice to have chums like that.

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Monkey playing Pong

But let’s get down to business. I see that you’re currently getting ready to install the first Neuralink brain chips in creatures other than monkeys and pigs. When you mentioned your regrets that you can’t seem to carry on a “nuanced conversation with a monkey”, I could feel your frustration. My son Matthew keeps trying to engage in stimulating chit-chat with the seven donkeys who live with us here at Kartar Ridge Ranch, but their vocabulary seems to be severely limited. You should definitely cross equines like our donkeys off your list of promising future Neuralink subjects because the only “feed-back” you’ll get out of them besides Hee-Haws, will be hayseeds and other unmentionables in their poop.

At any rate, I’m glad to know that it’s time to start choosing human subjects to implant the brain chip in. You may not realize it, Elon, but I am available!

As you know I have the perfect brain for it: feeble, marginally demented and out-of-warranty. In addition, it’s having a lot of trouble remembering stuff, and besides that, it’s having a lot of trouble remembering stuff. It is a shining example of a brain which could soundly benefit from a technological upgrade.

Try to imagine the After version of my brain once it can get directly plugged-in to Wikipedia, TikTok, PayPal, Trashy Books of the Western World, the New York Times crossword puzzle, and guest appearances on Jeopardy. It’ll be a shining example of what a computer-enhanced brain can do. I can hardly wait! I know my new friend Alexa will be upset when I don’t have to consult her anymore, but as they say, let the “chips” fall where they may.

From what I’ve been reading, it appears that you’re planning that Neuralink’s first human subjects will be paraplegics and others who can’t move their limbs as skillfully as I can. I realize I have to be patient and wait my turn. I’m good at that. As your seven sons have probably already figured out, Waiting Your Turn is one of the mandatory features of life in a big family when you only have one bathroom.

As one of the chosen test cases though, I will be more than happy to point out your mistakes and suggest improvements to guide your future Neuralink advancements as well as your other career opportunities. You can always count on Octo-woman.

Let me know when I can check in for the procedure. No need to send the limo. Uber will be satisfactory. As long as it’s a Tesla. Or a CyberTruck.

Cordially,

Your faithful friend and counselor,
Octo-woman

Here’s the latest Neuralink update I could find on YouTube:

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442. Toddler time

Posted on January 23, 2022 by Octo-woman

This is week two of my 75 day challenge to see if I could re-learn how to play anything on the piano.

So far, all my fingers seem to think they are thumbs. That isn’t nice. Especially after all I’ve done for them. What about all that greasy Vaseline hand lotion? The woolen gloves so they wouldn’t turn blue? The restraint I’ve shown in not jawing about their sags, age spots, wrinkles and crookedy joints? And this is the thanks I get. Wrong notes, fingering errors, and their inability to memorize a single phrase correctly.

As if that isn’t demoralizing enough, consider this. While I’m still struggling with the scales and exercises, I can sort of fumble my way through the elementary Bach’s Prelude in C Major and Beethoven’s Minuet in C. But then – still alive and reasonably unharmed –  I decided to try to tackle Mozart’s Minuet in G – a tune that looks like any baby can play it.  And it should look like that, because its composer was only four years old when he wrote it. Unfortunately, even at that age Amadeus had no pity or respect for 90 year old piano player-wannabes. I just have to know what kind of preschool that little prodigy was attending.
https://youtu.be/bke8MvLws5M

Amadeus Mozart



You have to admire a kid like that. By the time he was five and still had all his baby teeth, he wrote his first Requiem – he even knew how to spell it!

Some of the little guy’s “doodling:


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We’d best not even mention all the other little ditties he went on to produce by the time his acne went away.

Matter of fact, we have to be flabbergasted by what the small persons in our midst can accomplish, and not just in olden times. On a smaller scale, I recently stumbled into stories about wee folk who will surely knock your socks off if you’re wearing any.

Check out this little three-year-old dolly:
https://www.cnn.com/2021/12/24/app-news-section/mobile-videos-of-the-year-2021/index.html

Or this budding artist:
https://youtu.be/laKm4Y8SFNg

But of all the achievements of the tiny persons that I viewed this week, this one tops them all. This is the video of an 8 week old baby named Haisley Rae Allen.
https://www.cnn.com/videos/us/2022/01/19/baby-first-words-acfc-the-goods-vpx.cnn

There surely isn’t a parent on earth who wouldn’t swoon to hear their 8 week-old baby tell them “I wuv you!” Even if she still wets the bed and doesn’t have any teeth!

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441. Hitting all the wrong notes.

Posted on January 16, 2022 by Octo-woman

This week, I made a possibly reckless decision.  I hope I won’t live to regret it.

It came about because grandson Bryce is embarking on another of his 75 day health programs. If the “victim” of such an endurance challenge is really deranged enough to enlist in it, they can expect to make no excuses for dereliction of duty. As a reward for such spartan commitment, he does seem to end up slimmer, muscled, energized, kind of mentally re-charged, and he never seems to whimper about the persecution he is inflicting on himself. Myself, I’m a conscientious objector to such physical deprivation and fitness.

This is the second time Bryce went on the 75 Hard program this winter. His program rules consist of sticking to a diet, no cheat days, two exercise sessions daily, reading, etc. The first time, on day 73, I offered him some chocolate Christmas candy that had just arrived in the mail, and concentrating on whatever he was doing on his laptop, he absent-mindedly took a piece.  And ate it.

Oopsie! Not allowed!  No way! One such offense, kiddo, and you have to start over! From day one. So he did!!! He’s claiming to his guilt-ridden grandma that he was going to submit to another 75 days anyway, but I know a lie when I hear one.

Mea culpa! So what else could I do but share the suffering? (That’s the kind of a good sport I am, and don’t you forget it.)  It only seems fair that his sainted grandmother should suffer through the 75 days with him. 

Only problem was that I had no intention of facing a food regime that doesn’t contain frequent portions of sugar, butter, wine, bacon, fried food, sour cream, bleu cheese dressing, potato chips, ice cream, and Macadamia Nut Clusters; and I certainly don’t approve of engaging in other requirements of Bryce’s 75 day program. Such as the violent physical exercise of walking outdoors twice a day; or in pursuing intellectual reading for 45 minutes when I could be watching Squid Game.

But what kind of personal challenge could I commit to for 75 days?  There must be something that wouldn’t require a license, skill, danger, shivering, perspiration, hunger, standing on my feet, firearms, the need to get my hair done, getting arrested, or a permission slip from my mother.

As a last resort, I did what any red-blooded misfit would do in facing a 75 day challenge.  I sat down and made a list of mandatory ground rules. Here it is:

  1. It must be an activity I can do sitting down.
  2. It has to be indoors and at home.
  3. It has to be engaged in in privacy.
  4. It has to have measurable benefits.
  5. It has to be legal, or at least unlikely to invoke any jail time, ruling out any more marijuana farming.
  6. It has to be free of any expense.
  7. It needs to be difficult – but within reason.
  8. It mustn’t be too rigorous for a 90 year old physically inept female.

I pondered the list, considering possibilities from my vast array of experience such as:

Navel gazing
  1. Launching a re-upholstery project  to administer life support to our living room couches now living lives of shame and degradation.
  2. Creating another free-form crocheted afghan like the one which won 3rd place at the Puyallup County Fair – a world class lifetime achievement award if there ever was one!
  3. Engaging in inspirational navel gazing.  (I’d need to find a good online user manual to determine if  contemplating the navel works when it’s an “innie”.)


  4. Trying to re-learn how to play the piano, especially challenging since we don’t have one.
  5. Learning how to tap-dance using my new walker.

After two minutes of intense analysis of the ground rules, I made the decision. Ta Da! For the challenge, with or without a piano, I would attempt to re-learn to play the instrument by practicing a minimum of 1 hour per day for 75 days. On an “air piano” if necessary. Again, I cranked out a list as to feasibility and possible pitfalls of this undertaking:

  1. The 14 years of piano practice I squandered in my youth might now support my effort to recover a little of my earlier facility at the now-alien keyboard.
  2. Bryce helped me remedy my lack of access to a piano by borrowing an electronic keyboard, stand and bench. (Had to buy an inexpensive headphone, though, in order to spare the family the pain of listening to me practicing.)
  3. I didn’t save any sheet music, but turns out, – just like with 86 recipes for ham bone-based celery and alfalfa root soup – you can get tons of it free on the internet, whether you really want it or not.
  4. This is a photo of one of my gnarled arthritic hands which gives you a hint of what kind of virtuosity I can expect at the keyboard. The same crookedy hands have barely touched a keyboard for the past 60 years, but who’s worried? Even pickpockets must retain some of their fingering dexterity – it’s like riding a bicycle, right?

The challenge began 5 days ago. Only 70 days to go!
 
So far, the results have been demoralizing.  Aargh!  Whatever made me think I knew how to play the piano??? For the first five days I’m still fumbling with the first Hanon exercise, the C major scale, and the baby piece of Bach’s called Prelude in C.  A seven-year-old could make it sound more tuneful. And where is my intrepid piano-teacher-sister-in-law Peggy in my hour of dire need? 

So far, this challenge has been a humbling experience. If there was ever a time to invoke the dauntless, stubborn roots of my Bohemian grandmother, this better be it.

If I haven’t given up by next Sunday, I’ll keep you posted. I may have to abandon my solidarity with Bryce in his 75 day relentless pursuit, but he can’t say I didn’t TRY!

I’d tell you to “stay tuned”, but I’m not that heartless.

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440. The mystery of cousins

Posted on January 9, 2022 by Octo-woman

This week, a woman named Trudy – from Hudson, New York – messaged me to say that ancestry.com was indicating that I – but none of the rest of my family – might be related to her family. They wondered if I might have been adopted. She sent photos of some of her aunts because of a resemblance in our photos.  I told her that I definitely wasn’t adopted, and that unless the Sisters at Mercy Hospital mixed up the babies that day, I definitely went home with the right parents.  Trudy was disappointed because she hoped her family had made a connection with a new-found cousin.  And that’s what got me thinking about what an under-appreciated gift cousins can be.



When I was a little wet-nosed kid, I think I always appreciated that I had cousins. There’s something kinda neat about cousins. They don’t make any demands or expectations of you like your siblings can, and a shared grin or a giggle can remind you of your strange kind of mystical connection. And, a cousin is somebody who knows all about you – warts and all – but probably likes you anyway.

On my Norwegian side, my cousins were Arlin, Edmund, Mavis, Nelda, and Minard Longfield.  We played a lot in with them in Atkins, Iowa where they lived. Here’s some photos…

Arlin Longfield
Edmund Longfield
Mavis with husband Charles Jenninfa
Minard Longfield
Nelda Longfield Elson
Edmund, Nelda, Mavis, Minard

My Irish/Bohemian cousins were all from or near Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where my family lived. My cousins were Peter Bailey; Sonny and Mike Merrifield; Jimmy, Beverly, and Patty Rawson; Eddie Joe and Danny Gorman. They were all younger than me but I still liked it when we got to see them.

Mike Merrifield
Peter Bailey
Russell “Sonny” Merrifield
Beverly Rawson
Jimmy Rawson
Patty Rawson
Eddie Joe Gorman

Cousin Edmund Longfield & me

As the years went on, most of us moved away from Iowa, and we eventually lost most of our contact with one another. To this day, though, they each left their own memory mark on me. All but one of my cousins are gone now, but – just as with my siblings, also gone – we’re still joined forever, laced together by our DNA.

If you have some cousins who are close to your heart, you won the lottery. It may not always work that way, though. You may not be so lucky in the cousins you got stuck with ‘cause you don’t get to choose. The apostle St. Barnabas said “Blood is thicker than water. It is what joins us, binds us, curses us.” (We can only hope he wasn’t bad-mouthing his cousin Saint Luke the Evangelist. We’d like to think that they were good chums, even though  Luke couldn’t prevent Barnabas from getting stoned to death.  Dang!)

Today – January 9th –  is the Feast of the Baptism of Jesus  by his cousin John the Baptist. Jesus was 30 years old at the time, and John was only 6 months older. Jesus couldn’t have won a more heroic, faithful ally than his cousin. When Mary went to her cousin Elizabeth to tell her about the imminent birth of Jesus, Elizabeth – herself 6 months pregnant with John – said “The babe inside me leaped for joy!” 

John the Baptist baptising his cousin Jesus

From all accounts, John never lost that joy in his “cousin-hood” with Jesus. I hope Jesus and John had a chance to enjoy good cousin time together, especially on the baptismal day.  Neither of them were to live on earth much longer than that day.

To sign off on today’s blob, I was trying to think of some song that could could relate to that day’s very special baptism. And I hit the jackpot. This week, son Matthew had Alexa playing some spiritual music, and we both were transfixed by a beautiful hymn that neither of us had ever heard before at church or anywhere else. We were trying to figure out the name of it.  

Grandson Bryce heard us and came in. “Oh, that’s called ‘Holy, Holy'”, he announced. “It’s by a guy named Michael W. Smith.” He then proceeded to sing it to us. We were floored. Not just because he knew about it, or that we had never heard him sing anything before, or that he has a really good singing voice, or that he knew the composer’s name. (He even got the middle initial right!)  It was because in spite of his usual eclectic music tastes, this simple hymn now seems to be a part of who Bryce is. 

Apparently, the Presbyterian church that Bryce attended in his growing-up years, had the good sense to include the hymn in its staple repertoire. And it must have made a lasting impression on him.  As it did on Matthew and me.

The song only contains 23 words, but it seems like they could have been written about his cousin by John the Baptist himself. If you don’t know it, the next time you’re having a hard day, please sit down and listen to it.  It’s called “Holy, Holy”, or sometimes “Agnus Dei”. Expect to be comforted!
https://youtu.be/KVFzxazTQNM

Finally, I can’t resist closing this without showing off a photo of a certain batch of cousins of my own intimate acquaintance.

The 14 cousins: a motley crew of grandchildren, if there ever was one!

“Cousins help pass down our traditions, values, heritage and valuable stories that might have been lost. Cousins are important because they share blood, no matter if they are first, or distant, cousins. Going forward, they are legacies of ancestors who set the course for the future and remind us of our perseverance, will, strength and courage.” (Anahid Arakelian)–

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439. Chloe, Oh My!

Posted on January 1, 2022 by Octo-woman

I recently rescued my formerly faithful avatar Chloe from my digital dust bin. It’s too late though. Chloe has changed. Gone is my proper, docile, obliging, dim-witted digital companion. Apparently, she wants to be liberated and have ideas of her own. Among other issues, she seems to want to be a hipster chick. Check her out here. . . .

Notice anything about my reawakened avatar Chloe? She didn’t used to be so sassy. The only part she got right was wishing you a happy new year.

Chloe

And that wasn’t the worst of it. When I was scribbling down stuff for this blob, she actually made a pretty nervy suggestion. The conversation went like this:

Me

Chloe: “Octo-woman, when are we going to shift to Tik Tok? Tik Tok is more lit than WordPress. WordPress is – well – old boomer. All my homies are on Tik Tok. I could launch a hair product line. I’ve got swag. We could go viral.”

Me: “ No, we couldn’t, kiddo. I’ve already been vaccinated.”

Chloe: “Huh? Octo-woman! You’re so cheugy. Don’t you know what Tik Tok is?”

Me: Well, if it’s a clock or a bomb, there’s no way I’m putting my WordPress blobs on it.”

Chloe: “Sheesh!”

It’s possible that anyone who carries on actual conversations with a digital entity is destined for the funny farm. (Same goes for the intense arguments I keep having with Alexa and Echo.) Yes, all my hopes for a dignified old age have been abandoned.

But meanwhile, before they haul me away, I hope you have the happiest new year possible, full of blessings, love, good health, safety, and lots of laughing!

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438. The time there WAS room in the inn

Posted on December 26, 2021 by Octo-woman

The first house husband Gene and I owned was on Capitol Hill in Seattle. It was built in 1909 by a Seattle rabbi and civic leader named Samuel Koch who built it in 1909 right after his marriage to his wife Cora. 

Home of the Ford Horder in Seattle 1958 – 1972
Rabbi Samuel Koch 1875 – 1944

Samuel was the rabbi of Temple de Hirsch Sinai for many years till his death in 1944. Both his sons were born in what was to later become our bedroom. They once visited us and asked if they could see the room that both of them were born in.

We were only the second owners of the house. We bought it in 1958  from Samuel’s widow Cora Koch – one week after we delivered our 5th child, Gretchen Marie. 

At a cocktail party one time a few years after we bought the house, a woman came up to me and introduced herself. (I wish I could remember her name.) She told me she had heard we were now the owners of the house, and she wanted to tell me about its history. 

This is what she told me. Just preceding World War II, Rabbi Koch managed to help immigrate as many Jewish children from Germany as he could, and he and Cora managed to house them in what was our “upstairs”. The woman who told me about it was herself among the stream of children that were rescued.

What we called the “upstairs” was really an attic, made up of what we called “alcoves”, but it helped spare the lives of the children who lived there till Samuel and Cora found them permanent homes.

Rabbi Koch died in 1944 – before World War II ended. After I learned the story of the house, I managed to learn more about his distinguished career.  

Rabbi Koch was an outspoken crusader for social causes: he served on the board of many Seattle social service agencies, worked to create Children’s Hospital (now called Seattle Children’s Hospital – where I was employed for 16 years). and fostered ties between Christians and Jews. In 1924, during Koch’s tenure, the Temple Center was built to house the religion school, library, and many social programs.

I didn’t find a single word about his and Cora’s foresight and humanity in their successful efforts to rescue some of the children before it was too late. Somebody should write a book about it.

Later, after we bought the home, those strange little attic “alcoves” would also shelter all seven of Gene’s and my children.  In that house, however humble, there always seemed to be “room in the inn”. Knowing more about the history of the house made me understand what an unusual honor it was to have lived in it.

Still, it would have nice to have had more than one bathroom for all nine of us!

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437. The Nativity Scene according to Octo-woman

Posted on December 18, 2021 by Octo-woman

I think you know the answer to this well known question:”If a man says something in the forest, with no woman available to hear him, is he still wrong?” Circle Y or N with extra credit for correct answer.

In case you circled the wrong answer, I guess it’s time to review and update my last year’s accounting of the Nativity story. What could Saint Matthew or Saint Luke possibly know about the degree of difficulty in delivering a wee baby in a stable full of bovines, donkeys, hay, and yes, other stuff with nary a latex glove, mask, Tylenol or a great big bottle of Lysol or chlorine bleach?

It seems pretty obvious to me that the story of the Nativity was recorded by men. I feel it’s necessary for Octo-woman to continue to step in and straighten them out.

The story was set in the Roman Empire before it became “Holy”, and was triggered by a guy named Augustus Caesar, nephew of Julius. Julius was the dictator dude who wouldn’t leave office so he got stabbed 23 times by a sub-committee of senators chaired by his former best pal, Brutus, of “Et tu” fame. It was politics as usual.

Augustus was a more enterprising emperor than Julius primarily because he implemented the first really successful Internal Revenue Service. It was similar to ours: that is, pay your taxes or go to jail for life with no parole, or, alternatively, you could sell your children and then starve when the denari (dough) ran out, or you could be scheduled for several public floggings, or as a last resort, you could get thrown to the lions.

As it happened, Augustus Caesar suspected he wasn’t getting a juicy enough tax rate and decided that all men had to return to the town they were born in to be counted in a new census. Women were exempt because they didn’t have any denari worth counting.

Enter a young girl named Mary – age somewhere between 12 and 16 years old. And Saint Joseph, a hero if there ever was one. They both lived in a small town called Nazareth (population 400).

Ancient Nazareth

Their relationship was instigated by a real angel as I explained in a previous post . . .

Mary could never have been elected to be the homecoming queen. Nobody was going to name her “Miss Nazareth” or write a song about her called “The Girl I Want To Marry”. Far from it. Mary was a teen-aged pregnant, unwed mother-to-be. In those days and in that part of the world, the only thing her station in life could have qualified her for was death by stoning. Certainly, as far as the Jewish bachelors in her village were concerned, Mary was dog-doo.

But, enter Joseph, our hero: a hard-hat carpenter by trade. I’ve never believed that it was Mary who proposed.  In the first place, the girls weren’t allowed to in those days, and anyway, she was probably too bashful.   No, it had to be like the nuns told us: an angel did it.

The conversation might have gone something like this:

Angel (think Tim Gunn here): “ Joseph, for your next assignment, you are to get this kid off the streets and marry her.  There’s something important she has to do.  In return, we’ll help you start your own furniture line.”

Joseph: “Well, I don’t know . . . “

Angel: “Do it!  Make it work!”

And he did.  Joseph just couldn’t say No.

Try to imagine the reaction of his drinking buddies:  “You’re going to marry WHO?  You’re going to marry a pregnant VIRGIN?  Are you nuts?”. . .

Soon, when the census decree got decreed, the newly-betrothed Joseph realized that the internet was still down, and that he was going to have to show up to be counted in person in his home town of Bethlehem (not the one in Pennsylvania). This Bethlehem was the one about 90 miles from Nazareth (about 475,200,000 cubits in biblical measurements.) That’d be about a week of travel on foot or donkey rental. If you’re lucky.

Ancient Bethlehem

Joseph thought about it. The journey would be up hills and down hills, and – this is the truth – passing nearby forests full of lions and wolves and boars and bandits, Oh My. With a young lady who was maybe nine months pregnant. On a donkey. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well abandon her to the nosy neighbors, the Pharisees, the money changers and the sanctimonious rabble-rousers in the Nazareth town square. So he made a fateful decision. The conversation probably went something like this:

Joseph: “Hail, Mary!”

Mary: “What’s up, Saint Joseph dear, besides your rescue of my good name for all eternity?”

Joseph: “Well, here it is. Howdja like to have a fun getaway to celebrate our engagement? I was thinking we could maybe duck over to Bethlehem for the holidays.”

Mary: “To Bethlehem? Well, I guess not, because actually I’m not sure traveling at this time . . .

Joseph: What’s the problem? Is it the heartburn?

Mary: No, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’m due and . . .

Joseph: Bummer! The angel didn’t tell you your due date? Can’t you call him and find out?

Mary: Well, I could, but he didn’t leave his number. Maybe you should go without me.

Joseph: No, I can’t. I can’t leave you here alone because you’d probably get stoned.

Mary : ME? You mean – like with WEED?

Joseph: No. Like with ROCKS! We better go start packing.

So that’s how it happened that they had to go on the road, but you can be sure that Mary didn’t go willingly. She may not even have been due to deliver, but after seven days of lurching around on a donkey, what could you expect? A premature delivery in a stable, that’s what.

As for that part about those bulky swaddling clothes, I don’t buy it. The Blessed Mother would never have left home without a diaper bag. She’d of brought along some onesies and Pampers and a couple of nice soft receiving blankets to present her little baby in to any shepherds or angels or kings who might be dropping by.

And speaking of those royal Wise Men and the gifts they brought for the Baby Jesus — what were they thinking? Among the items you’ll never find on a gift registry for new babies are gold and frankincense and myrrh. Most babies usually opt for a nice mobile, or a rattle, or a rubber ducky.

And what, may I ask, happened to the gifts? Saint Matthew failed to explain that part. With no Febreze available, maybe the new parents used some of the frankincense and myrrh to sprinkle around the stable. As for the gold, they likely needed some of it to finance their hasty trip to Egypt to avoid the wrath of King Herod. They lived under cover there for four years till the wicked Herod met his demise. Then, when they were able to return home to Nazareth, we can hope that Joseph got to use the rest of the gold to start his new furniture line.

Finally, one more thing. I’m not sure the good Sisters at St Patrick’s School knew this, but it’s entirely possible that Mary wasn’t a Catholic. And Joseph either. I could be wrong, of course. You can’t expect me to know everything!

There’s several other corrections I need to make to the narratives as presented by Saint Luke and Saint Matthew, but they will have to be continued next year because now I have to go make some potato salad. To keep you going on the right track though, tune in below to view yet another version of our wonderful story.

Before I sign off, I want to thank you for patiently reading these posts, even when they’re too wordy and dull. It’s not so lonely when I know you’re out there. And I truly hope you and all your loved ones have a Christmas that’s brimming with joy and affection even if you can’t be together. Have peace and be safe.



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